Silly alt-hist/place swap BS [CHAPTER 4 up]

[weemadando]

Again a bit quick and dirty, but much more content this time.

Chapter 4

Waterloo, 18 June 1815
Command Tent of Armeé du Nord
The news was not good, that much was clear to see as another bloodied messenger came into the tent. “Sir, the attack is ongoing –“
“Just say ‘But’ already and get it over with!” shouts Napoleon at the messenger.
“ – Though the skirmishers have pushed to within range of the chateau, the trickery of the English has caused many casualties and stalled the advance. Colonel Vabois requests that another force approach from further on the left so as to relieve the pressure on the orchard.”
“Release two regiments of dragoons and another infantry regiment. Have them ride wide and approach parallel to the ridge. You –“ he points to another messenger awaiting instructions, “Tell the centre that it is time to begin showing some pressure. Infantry advance towards La Haye Saint and the gap between there and that damnable chateau. And you Ney, find out where the Prussians are. I need to know how much time we have.”

Hougoumont
The barricade of fallen trees had grown substantially. Bodies were now lying two and three deep atop it and were scattered in front of and piled high behind it. Lieutenant Green feels a little sick as he watches the slaughter unfold as his men take careful aim and remain under tight fire discipline, single shots and making them count. Each wave of troops that try to scramble over the barrier are cut down as soon as they emerge into the thin strip of killing ground. The movement of the cavalry after he’d lost sight of them behind the orchard and the terrain was predictable – there was no way that Napoleon would feed them into the open ground between Hougoumont and La Haye Saint. It had to be a diversion to try and relieve the infantry in the orchard. It looked like there was more infantry heading into the orchard as well as a large advance forming up across the valley.
“Romeo Zero, this is Romeo Two, over”
“Romeo Two, this is Romeo Actual, send, over.”
“Romeo Zero, we have cavalry moving around to our Eastern flank and it looks like we might have a major advance forming to move on the centre of the line.”

Rifleman Watters’ foxhole
“Oooh, they’re angry now Watters.” Chirps Serjeant Cox. “Look at ‘em all getting ready to march.” From the foxhole the situation was clear. There was a whole lot of troops getting into marching order.
“What’s that Serjeant? About five thousand of them?” Cox takes a moment to finish his quick mental tabulation.
“More like twelve thousand if they’re going to commit all the ones that are getting ready. This is a serious little party they’re planning on throwing.”
“Twelve thousand? How the fuck are we meant to deal with that?”
“We’ll have help son. You can count on that. And those guys getting ready to march have seen us sniping officers all morning, wipe out a cavalry unit in a few seconds and you saw what that Javelin did. How long do you really think they’re going to stay in the fight when it gets bad?”

Supply dump, reverse slope of the ridge
Quartermaster Serjeant Button looked at the production line that was set up – every spare hand from HQ and the reserve platoons were busy building link for minimis and then laying it and the 7.62mm for the GPMGs carefully into boxes ready for use, stacking rounds into mags, arming grenades that had been made safe for transport and a multitude of other tasks. Then boxing up the finished product into crates light enough to be hauled by hand to the various parts of the field where they were needed. Every few minutes a runner would return with a crate full of empty mags which would go onto the pile to be refilled, slurp down a few cups of tepid sports drink and then grab another crate for delivery. They system was inefficient, but it was the best that they could do for now. When things got desperate they’d have to fire up the vehicles to move it in bulk, but they didn’t want to show that particular card just yet.
“Serjeant Button,” a runner arrives, “Captain Dahl requests that 3rd Platoon, C Company stand to.” Before Button even can give the order the men are breaking out of their spots on the production line and gathering their gear.
“You obviously ‘eard ‘im!” Button shouts, “3rd Platoon, C Company! Serjeant Singh, get your men ready to go.”
“3rd Platoon, gear up and fall in!” Singh shouts. He turns to the runner, “Is it Hougoumont?”
“Sounds like it Serjeant, there’s a major advance forming and they’re trying to flank the chateau.” Singh thinks about the logistics of the redeployment while he waits for the last stragglers to fall in. “The lieutenant is just getting briefed by Captain Dahl and will be here in a minute.”

East of Hougoumont
Colonel Prenouille had been given II Corps by Napoleon earlier in the day shortly after he had watched Honore Charles Reille’s head above the jawline evaporate into a cloud of blood and gore. Reille had been busy marshalling troops after being tasked by Napoleon with taking the chateau, now like every other living officer in the French Army Prenouille was dressed like any other soldier and did his best to remain inconspicuous. Cowardice or not, it was proving to be the best way to stay alive and he’d happily take the jibes from his fellow officers after the battle than have a eulogy about his bravery. The attack was not proceeding with the pace he had hoped. The loss of a large portion of the battery which had been firing on the chateau certainly did not help, but the constant firing by the defenders was cutting down his attacks at a phenomenal pace. The chateau was large with long walls and large courtyards, so overrunning it was always going to be difficult, but the amount of force he was bringing to bear would certainly end this particular engangement.
With the bulk of II Corps remaining forces he was encroaching on the nearest entrenchments to the chateau. The number of holes in the line had increased in number again – Prenouille could not have understood the happiness of the British soldiers to be digging into good old fashioned European soft loam, rather than hard packed, dried desert clay and rock – but he had watched the cavalry die and knew that the men in the holes were dangerously good shots and clearly had some form of repeating rifle. He planned to bring most of II Corps into the hinge between the entrenchments and the chateau, pushing into this space in an effort to envelope the farmstead and leave the entrenchments exposed. Lobau and D’Erlon made their threatening gestures and shuffled men back and forth along the rest of the line, but it was here that the battle had been met. Once the dragoons were in place, then he could send his forces into the final march forward – the pressure of eight thousand additional men on three sides of the chateau and four thousand against the entrenchments should be more than enough to collapse the defences. “Any word yet?”
“No Sir, still nothing – all other units are awaiting the signal.”
“Have the cannon switch their aim. Forget the chateau for now and use canister on their entrenchments. The terrain will give our forces cover from the chateau until they are close, but the men in the entrenchments must be held in place.


Al-Amarah, Iraq, 8 August 2006
Eastern Outskirts
The Coldstream Guards were in shock, the monsters had passed with the most tremendous racket which had left windows shattered and had the grains of sand and smaller pebbles dancing on the ground. “What were they?” “Dragons!” “Giant grey birds!” and many other cries of fear and amazement came from the huddled groups of soldiers who are trying to move their wounded back across the open market.
“More of them are coming!” Heads turn to look in the direction that the man is pointing. Another pair of dots can be seen to the North East. As they approach the noise once again rises to a crescendo that drowns out all other sound as the pair of objects flash overhead faster than heads can turn to track them. As the thunderous roar fades the humming of a gathering crowd can be heard coming from deeper into the city.


Basra, Iraq, 8 August 2006
Basra International Airport – Operating Base Basra
“Shindig, Rhino Two-Two, show of force complete. Over.”
“Rhino Two-Two, this is Shindig, resume racetrack at six thousand feet. Friendlies at eight thousand and ten thousand. Over.” The Tactical Air Command base at Basra was overflowing with personnel. Every station was filled and handling it’s maximum capacity of traffic. Non-essential operations had been palmed off to remote operators at Baghdad International while literally thousands of new flight plans and missions were being planned and run through the centre. Every few minutes another directive came out from the briefing room and more flight plans and readiness assessments were requested. “Ogre Four-One, this is Shindig, UAV feed shows crowd massing about one kilometre West of the Market, just North of the river. Show of force requested at this location. Ceiling is two thousand feet. Report when inbound.”

In the briefing room, the talk and planning continues with a scope quite unlike anything that the participants had taken part in before. Around the now very cramped briefing table sat more than thirty men of varying nationalities, services and ranks. Currently speaking was an Royal Army Surgeon, “If we assume seventy thousand men, with say four litres per man as a minimum requirement in this environment – that’s two hundred and eighty thousand litres of water we need to distribute within the next twenty four hours in order to avoid having to move to a more intensive care plan required for severe dehydration.”
“Don’t forget the horses.”
“Horses! Horses are a minor concern, we’ve –“
“Horses may be a minor concern to us militarily, but those horses are a goldmine.” A Royal Australian Navy Commodore butts in, “About eighty percent of Europe’s horses were wiped out in World War Two. The world’s breeding stock is coming closer and closer to genetic bankruptcy. If we’ve got some ten thousand plus horses of various breeds from two hundred years ago, then the prices that can be earned off them make them national treasures that could end up financing this whole recovery effort.”
“Our colleague makes an excellent point,” The representative of the Saudi military leans forward, “Indeed, the Royal Family have advised me that they already have underway a convoy of horse floats which will be capable of carrying close to a thousand horses back to safe lodgings.”
“Typical. We’ve got seventy thousand men dying of thirst and violence and the Princes can only see a new generation of thoroughbreds.”
“Gentlemen, stop.” The voice that comes over the speakerphone is instantly identifiable, “As much as I’d love to have these horses on my ranch, it’s humans that are the priority here. Now, the Joint Chiefs tell me that between all our boats in the Gulf right now we can desalinate and transport maybe a quarter of the daily water requirement.”
“Thank you Mr President,” The Royal Army Surgeon looks down at his notes again, “But water is only one of many concerns. We’re going to need to quarantine these men. There’s all manner of diseases – smallpox is the biggie here, that we had considered eradicated or otherwise controlled by vaccinations. All of these soldiers and animals and anyone who has come into contact with them will need to undergo a full suite of tests to determine what risks they pose. Even worse for them will be the diseases which our men carry which will be far more virulent and potent than their contemporary versions. Full spectrum vaccinations will be part of the screening process. And until such a time that we have completed all these measures we cannot allow any uncontrolled contact. As unpopular as it might be, I recommend that we initiate NBC procedures for all forces in the area of operations.”


Al-Amarah, Iraq, 8 August 2006
US Army Blackhawk Polly One-One
The Blackhawk thumps across the landscape at the head of a column of forty transport helicopters. There are American Blackhawks, Chinooks, Seahawks and Super Stallions, British Lynx and Pumas as well as other specimens scrambled by some of the smaller Coalition members. Ahead of them a pair of Apaches provides security while four USMC Super-Cobras race to join the armada. The mission was never going to be smooth with this much inter-service coordination required,Moments before they had taken off the call had come to hold position, then had come the order for all forces to make ready for NBC conditions. The troops in the back were unhappy, usually the chopper ride offered a brief, albeit noisy respite from the oppressive heat by flying slightly higher and with open doors to allow the slipstream to cool them. Instead they were ensconsced in their MOPP suits, rubberised airtight coveralls designed to save them in the event of a chemical or biological attack. Most would refer to them kindly as an ill-fitting, chafing, personalised sauna. Unkindly, their language would have caused their mothers to give them a clip around the ears. So they sit in the back of the choppers and feel the wind whip and tug at their suits, but without feeling it’s cooling touch.
The briefing that they had been given was sparse, but the rumours that had been flying had definitely been confirmed. “Expect non-contemporary personnel at LZ. Compliance is expected from non-contemporary personnel, but resistance may be encountered.” Non-contemporary personnel was the official phrase, but everyone had already substituted “redcoat”. It was just easier that way. Al-Amarah was visible ahead now, smoke pouring from it’s Eastern suburbs where a fire was burning out of control, obviously a remnant from the earlier battle. Smaller pillars of smoke were scattered around the area. Stretching away to the East along the roads was the redcoat army – tens of thousands of men hiding in whatever shade they could find in this hostile and angry environment.
“Two minutes out. UAV and Apaches are reporting that the primary LZ is clear.”
“Gear check!” The corporal in charge of the section struggles to be heard through the MOPP suits and over the engine and rotors. “We are two minutes out.” The men were members of the US Army’s 4th Brigade Combat Team, 82nd Airborne who had been en route to Kuwait for R&R when their flight had been diverted to Basra and they’d been given the orders to prepare for immediate deployment. The disappointment had been palpable, but then the disbelief had set in. No one was quite sure what to make of any of this still. “When we hit the ground our first task is to provide immediate security at the LZ, we’ve got Brits coming in behind us who will push forward to find ranking officers on the ground. Remember, some of these redcoats probably fought against Washington, so US Army mightn’t be their favourite people. We are just there to provide security.”
From the cockpit the view of the LZ was becoming clear – a lovely barren patch in a wedge between two roads heading into the city. A pair of Tornados rip across the city at low level slashing across the front of the column of choppers as they bank up and away to await more orders. Already another pair of aircraft, USN F/A-18Gs can be seen swooping in from the West to make their pass. “Thirty seconds out . . . Fifteen seconds . . .”
The crew chief in the back of the Blackhawk pokes his head out the window above his gun, “Twenty feet . . . Twelve feet . . . Eight feet . . . Four feet . . . Three, two . . .”
“Go, go, go.” Corporal Piszec watches his men jump the three feet from the door onto the ground and land as cleanly as any paratrooper should. He scans the passenger area for any misplaced items, finding none he does a final check of his gear. “All clear,” he reports to the chopper crew over the intercom before removing the bulky intercom headset and dismounting. As soon as his feet leave the floor the Blackhawk strains back into the air. Over his radio he can hear the tactical channel lighting up as more and more of the force lands. Visibility is next to nothing now – the cyclonic dust storm generated by the massed helicopter fleet is impeding any movement. Each landed group bomb-bursts away from their chopper as doctrine demands, seeking any cover that they can find, not from enemy fire, but from the horizontal hailstorm of sand and rocks that are being flung outwards. “All ground call-signs, this is Uniform Zero Actual, go firm and stand by for advance. Break.” Uniform Zero Actual was Captain Reginald Bain of the Royal Marines, who was currently huddled behind a collapsed billboard which was sounding like a thousand snare drums in the maelstrom of grit. He reaches for a different handset on his radioman as the last helicopter, an Mi-17 carrying Pulk Specjalny Komandosow operators from Poland makes it’s approach. “Shindig, this is Uniform Zero Actual. LZ security is good. Suitable for medievac. Commencing advance.”

Eastern Outskirts
The advance moves quickly through the streets, emptied of civilians by the fighting throughout the morning. The constant drone of jets and helicopters was only interrupted by the occasional roar of another show of force. It was still too risk to actually approve any airstrikes until Forward Air Controllers on the ground could get to grips with the situation. And even then, dropping a 500lb bomb into a city was never a popular option. The citizenry were well and truly in hiding now, shocked by the dress of the soldiers – all of them completely concealed within their MOPP suits. The dehumanised appearance is menacing and unsettling. The civilians know what purpose the suits serve and are terrified as to why the soldiers, for the first time in years are dressed in them.
“Uniform Zero, Shindig. UAV shows that you have a roadblock at the next intersection on the Western side of the junction. Multiple contacts visible. Over” The signal to hold is given and the soldiers go firm in their nearest cover.
“Copy that Shindig. Will engage on ground. Over.” Captain Bain looks forward to where the lead element is holding, ten metres short of the suspect corner. He switches to a local comm channel, “We’ve got a roadblock at that next intersection, on the West, that is our left. Third squad, toss smoke, engage and suppress. First and second squads, go one street West and come up parallel and engage.”

For the Coldstream Guards it was confusing, they’d had no further messages from Wellington or any other commanders since the initial advance was ordered that morning. Then the brief skirmish, the bombing and now the sky was filling with all manner of flying beasts. Corporal McIntyre had been fading in and out of consciousness since the explosion, he’d seen the angular silhouettes streaking across the sky, each time bringing pain as the pressure of their passing played against his damaged ears and sinus. When he reaches down he can feel the tourniquet tight around his leg, stopping the bleeding from his wound. He is in line for the attentions of the regimental surgeon, he is sure of that much. Losing his leg and being a cripple. No hope for the future and a drain on his family when the service casts him aside. He turns his head to look around as men in his unit grab at weapons and rush to form a battle line as orders are shouted. All he can hear is a constant ringing still, the roaring of automatic weapons, thudding grenade explosions and shouts from the various officers trying to bring the Coldstream into line are all muted by the monotonous atonal noise in his head. The light fades again as he lapses back into unconsciousness.

“Wake up! Oi! Wake up!” McIntyre’s eyes flicker open momentarily, then close again, “McIntyre! McIntyre!” His name, barely recognisable amongst the sounds of battle and damaged ears pulls him into consciousness once more. As his eyes focus he screams and thrashes, trying to escape the thing above him. The giant eyes and strange protuberances where a human’s nose and mouth should be make it look like a fly. It shouts his name again, despite having no apparent mouth. His eye’s wide, McIntyre tries to swing his fist at the creature.
“Ian!” A familiar face hovers into view as a strong arm pins him hand to the ground, “It’s OK. They’re British – after a manner. They just dress funny.”
“What –“ McIntyre can only croak one word before thirst gets the better of him.
“I need an IV in and two units of plasma here, full flow.” The insect headed man speaks with a Glaswegian accent, “ Head and neck injuries. Probable TBI. Massive musculo-skeletal damage in the leg. One vial morphine. Nothing more until he’s in theatre. He’s priority one. Tag him and get him to the choppers.” A canteen appears and dribbles some water into McIntyre’s mouth.
“What is happening?”
“You’re going to be fine. That’s what’s happening. And you even get a helicopter ride in the bargain. Now hold still.” The strange man jabs a needle into McIntyre’s undamaged thigh while he talks. Before McIntyre can protest the edges of his world start to recede again.

RAF Puma Worzel Two-One, heading for Basra
“Inconceivable.” Wellington mutters as the helicopter races towards Basra, “This is the kind of mobility that your forces enjoy?” He was adapting remarkably well to the idea of flight, though he was certainly not moving any closer to any door than he had to.
“One kind Sir. I have to say that when we reach Basra you might want to hold onto something. Because this little bird is nothing in the scheme of things.” Colonel Raddley was giddy. Here he was having a conversation with Wellington. Temporal questions be damned, he thinks, This man is just as fascinating as history would make out.
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve got planes that we use for larger movement which will carry over a hundred men. Some civilian ones are even bigger – there’s one being built that will carry more than eight hundred across the Atlantic Ocean in under six hours.” The look of shock on the faces of Wellington and De Lancey is unmistakeable.
“To move men like this –“
“-Comes at a great expense. This particular item is a Westland Puma, it’s close to forty years old and when it was new it probably cost us about a two million pounds.”
“Two million pounds!” Exclaims De Lancey, “For one item!”
“That’s just the start. It needs a ground crew of about six men to keep it serviceable in this environment, they’re all specialists to some extent and have to be well trained as this is an amazingly complex machine. Same for the pilots who are flying us now. To keep it airborne it needs more than four gallons of fuel per mile on average. That’s without mentioning the other fluids and consumables. And of course all of those have to be transported to the theatre. A modernised army now has about a 3:1 ratio of support troops to combat troops to maintain effectiveness. And that becomes more complex in a scenario like this one where we are in a counter-insurgency environment. The most recent figures are about 7:1 for this theatre. Believe me when I say that there are more than a few officers who would love to go back to only having some horses to worry about.”
“But to be able to move so quickly – it is a boon!”
“And a curse. You’ll learn that quickly enough. There was a time, that ended only about twenty years ago called the Cold War. Where we lived with the knowledge that we might only get a few minutes warning of an attack. We were very lucky – as a species, that the war remained cold, because the weapons that we would have used are truly apocalyptic in scale. Devices capable of reducing a city to ash in an instant. And there were thousands of them, each alliance aiming theirs at the other.”
“Were they ever used?”
“Twice. To end a World War. More than sixty years ago now.”
“You say ’a’ World War.”
“Yes. The second one. The first one was called ‘The War to End All Wars’ because it was so terribly costly. But it paled in comparison to the second.”
“I fear that learning our future – your history,” Wellington corrects himself, “May be a deeply depressing thing.”
“Sadly Sir, I believe it will be.” Raddley glimpses a familiar sight out of the window of the Puma, a sprawl of tarmac, bunkers, buildings and barricades larger than most landowners holdings in Wellington’s day. “There it is Sir, Basra International Airport.”
“It’s enormous!”
“Just wait until you see Heathrow.”


Waterloo, 18 June 1815
Hougoumont
“It looks like they’ve finally gotten sick of waiting, Lieutenant.” The regiment man peered out of the window next to Lieutenant Green. The mass of men had finally commenced their advance and were beginning to disappear behind the trees and terrain.
“That it does Sergeant. I guess it’s time for us to kick it up a notch too. See just how much bottle the Frogs have got.” Through another window they can see the cavalry on the West side of the chateau were dismounting and preparing to advance.
“Well, I best get back to my men Lieutenant. We’ll do our best to keep the officer population in decline on all fronts.”
“Your best my friend, is more than we could hope for.”

[LionElJonson]

“Two million pounds!” Exclaims De Lancey, “For one item!”

Just wait until he sees the price of a loaf of bread. A few hundred years of inflation is a bitch.

[Edward Yee]

Can't wait to BLOW his (and De Lancy's) mind by seeing what's at Heathrow, besides an airport...

[MysteriousDarkLordv3]

Which would be more disconcerting to Wellington and his men - the fact that there are women and persons of African descent in the British army giving orders? Or the manner in which civilian women dress?

1800's men on the beach observing the end result of 200 years of evolution of swimwear ...

[Vehrec]

You're kidding right? Those of them that can swim are probably used to skinny-dipping. Hell, that's how Benjamin Franklin swam in the Thames during his first visit to England. 200 years of swimwear has basically resulted in things coming nearly full circle.

[drakensis]

Which would be more disconcerting to Wellington and his men - the fact that there are women and persons of African descent in the British army giving orders? Or the manner in which civilian women dress?

The women and persons of African descent in the British Army would be much less of a surprise than them giving orders. Until medical examinations became standard there were always a small percentage of an army (or navy) who were quietly crossdressing as men with the conivance of their squadmates or shipmates.

[Stuart]

Another excellent chapter Weemando. This is a first-class story.

On the women issue, it isn;t as surprising as one might think. Royal Navy ships of the line had women as authorized members of the ship's company (Victory had eight on board at Trafalgar) for many years. See N.A.M. Rodgers "The Wooden World". This is in addition to any unauthorized women who were disguised as men for whatever reason. Armies had camp followers of course and the Spanish guerillas had many women members who were greatly feared by the French (primarily because any Frenchman who fell into their hands would cease to be a man of parts as it were). So, the idea of women in military formations wouldn't be that surprising.

Thinking about it, the real culture clash wouldn't be between the very early 19th century men and the21st century women but between the latter and the very early 19th century women. Such things as contraception, hygiene etc have led to an entirely different lifestyle and, more importantly expectations, for women. Each is likely to be profoundly shocked at what the other considers normal.

[xt828]

More interesting stuff.

I wonder if Wellington would be quite able to get his head around fuel so quickly - IIRC at the time the steam engine was in its very infancy, so the whole modern world is several evolutionary steps ahead of what he's used to - I'm also thinking of Stuart's very well done interaction between R.E. Lee and the US armed forces in TSW, which resulted in Lee realising that he didn't grasp the basic assumptions modern armies operate on, let alone the transformation of them into battlefield practise. The culture clash in going to be immense and quite mindboggling, especially for the less well educated.

Also, is there a particular reason that you're spelling Sergeant that way?

[weemadando]

The Rifles maintain the traditional spelling of the word as part of their unit culture.